Bilirubin blossoms, a cautionary tale

I posted this to my online community boards because if I didn’t, I was afraid I’d just cry all day. I’m still sick (this is the worst cold I can remember, my eardrums are killing me) and according to my weepiness and short temper I’m in the zone for a complete premenstrual breakdown. But goddamnit, this was supposed to be a good day.

Seamus slept really well last night -  from eight to -four-thirty, then a short nursing session before going back down till 6:30, which is when I brought him in to hang out till seven. I had remained awake after his 4:30 call for about an hour before napping into a dream where I watched him drown in ocean swell, so the morning time was sweet and tinged with relief. He has the cold too, judging by his fountaining nose, so I figured we’d get him dressed and us breakfasted and maybe get out for an errand, since the snot canceled our acrobatics class. Instead, Seamus wailed about everything. From the boards:

We’re both sick today and the tantrums have been really fucking splendid. We finally ended the pantrum with him taking the option of naked on bottom and using the potty, which is working so far. It won’t get the dog walked, but I’ll fight that battle after I shower and get dressed.

Right. Shower. Fingers crossed for a puddle/pile-free living room when I get out….

So that didn’t quite work out. The later posts:

PSA: If in the course of cleaning up a massive potty accident you find your child may have sucked down chlorine-free bleach, rest assured that by virtue of being in the spray bottle, said bleach may have already broken down into water. Of course, this doesn’t bode well for the mess you cleaned, but hey, you’ve dodged the ER.

And:

I’m almost at the laughing stage myself, (redacted), but I’m almost done cleaning.

Sequence of events: Bathroom - turn on shower, brush teeth, >> living room to check on Seamus, remind him to use the potty (which he’d done earlier), “Okay Mama”, run to shower,  then ten minutes later I’m out and in the corner of my eye I see him running from the living room to his room, covered in shit. “Shea?” “Poop!”

FUCK.

He was very tractable about getting cleaned up, and cheered me on “good job, Mama” while I cleaned with him on my back. I’ve had my mom’s Oreck steam cleaner on long-term loan, and I think I’m entering into plural marriage with it this weekend. So. Grateful. To. Appliance.

He tracked his poop all over his new bedroom rug, across the hardwood between his room and the living room, the living room rug, and the floor near the dining table. All of his play areas. So I cleaned him up, got him dressed and into the carrier, and cleaned all the hardwood, started the bedroom rug, and finished the living room. I popped him down and scrubbed his rug, wishing to hell I had a neighbor I could call to keep him entertained while I shredded raised flowers of Dwell Studio for Target with my scrub brush.

I’ll have to hit that rug again with something stronger. Whatever I’m feeding that kid has lasting color the likes of which hair dye factories hven’t seen.